Unbounded Books
by Joe Ren
Summary: Teenager lives on his collection of books but, when he stumbles onto something beyond himself or the occasional wild-man, can he come to terms with his past and look to the future? Minecraft, Romance/Friendship. (First Fanfic, don't be too harsh, please shoot me suggestions, thanks!)
1. Dedication

Unbounded Books

Dedication Page

Summery:

Teenager lives on his collection of books but, when he stumbles onto something beyond himself or the occasional wild-man, can he come to terms with his past and look to the future? Minecraft, Romance/Friendship.

T+

To you the reader,

_Who dreamed that they were 2__nd__ best, or that they where somehow lesser then that popular, all-to-well-known social butterfly who has it made. It is the journey that shapes us, builds us, sands us down, paints the red and blues in our flesh and that gives us more than that smiling face, but a head of reason on our shoulders. Pride is a lesson learned, so learn it and come to terms with your fears, your feats, and the "d__umb presagers of my speaking breast"(sonnet 23)._


	2. Chapter 2: Descent

**Descent**

**Chapter 1**

A wonderful thing a dream is. The best of a moment, a dip in the waters of memory, hazed by the cool pool of thought and feelings of comfort, security. A small child sitting in his mother's lap, her hair slowly swishing and drifting at her thin shoulders from the sweet breezes of the eternal summers in the woods. My woods. Laughter from son and mother over the silly imaginative stories whispered into ever so sweet ears and the rush of air, just enough to blow off the tops of the dandelions hidden in tall grass. Mother ties chains of beauteous clover blossoms into a crown of green kingdoms. The newly crowned king rises with a leap from his mother's lap, to playfully toil and tussle the fearsome story-told monsters of dark forests. As mother bades the young king again to her lap, only to have him draw a stick-shift sword from a belt-loop sheath to whip into gusts of wind and arms bent to earth that emerge from thick rounded bodies. The brave battling boy retires to the shore of a naturally generated pool, he dares his mother to step in herself. She gracefully slides to the water's edge and glides her hand over-top of the water, splashing the young boy. Laughing begins again as the innocent child repeats after his mother, throwing water onto her. Light begins to fade the pleasant and comfort of the dream into a warm sun streaming through a neighboring window into awaking eyes. The young man sits up in his bed, letting the blankets slip away from a now chilling body. Slowly moving beads of glass run down his cheeks only to be wiped away by the back of a forearm.

"Happy birthday mum." I murmured as he slid out his feet from under the neatly wool woven sheets onto the cold floor. In years past he would have celebrated by bringing a small trinket he would have found in the mines or made something himself to give to his mother or father on their birthdays, but that was too long ago. Many miles have been walked, sun and moons sets and mineshafts ago. These words were still ringing in his years as he dressed, packed his lunch and tools, also when as he was stepping out into the forest for a quick journey to the mines. My father built this house close to the tunnels and caves many years back so he could always be home to tuck me into bed. I always enjoyed the very familiar walk through the e forest, but I never stopped scouting out my path ahead of me. I could have always taken the more open path around the thickest parts of the forest and into the desert , but every morning was a roll of dice of whether you were going to wake up ever again, so why not live. I can take care of myself. Life is survival this far out from the huge Minecraftian cities filled with rich folk who can't do any honest work outside of 'fair trading'. The newly started morning breeze russeled the shadowy patterns under the trees and filled the forest with empty noise. I reach for the cold iron-leather rapped hilt of my sword. The tanned hide brushed the moisture off my sweaty palm as I anticipated an attack from hostile mobs. They often used these flurries of noise and motion to cover an attack. As I stood there waiting for something to happen the breeze slowed and faded to reveal nothing but my own heavy breathing. No footsteps, no hissing, no ting of knocked arrows being released by a bleached figure. Nothing. I wiggled and felt my toes touching the cool earth. Mother would have loved this patch of grass that I was stopped in. The grass reached between your toes and let the drops of cold dew coalesce on every side of your foot. I began to walk once again towards the stone entrance into a small hill not far from my grassy spot. As I walked up the stone was still chilled by drifting shadows of near-by trees. This little grassy nook was clearly traveled where I stepped but surrounded by tall grass and the wildflowers that I would bring home once-upon-a-time.

The stone extended from the tunnel to just outside the doorway. The creaky old wooden doors sagged onto the stone floors that were ground-down by the open and shut motion of the old doors, something that I never missed in noticing and that the dead-bolt's worn out slider was red and orange flecked, worn past repair. The old wood was splintering, nails slowly sinking and slowly backing out of the wooden planks. The doors needed to be replaced many months ago but I never had the same knack for crafting them as my father did. His craftsmanship still radiated from the split grains of hardwood. The simple handles still hung with the same body that my dad carved. The discolor of the wood showed blackened - now grey stains from fires long ago. Those coals and half burnt chips could still be found as I rubbed my feet into the soft earths of the forest, hiding and decaying just under soft and lush blades of grass. I slid right into the now opened doorway of an illuminated tunnel, closing the door, swiping the dead-bolt closed into place behind me. In a sorry attempt to clean the orange rust off my roughened finger tips, I slid my hand against my torn jeans, brushing my hand against the hilt of my cold sword. I bring out a pickaxe and bare-foot I step into the stone confines of a tunnel.


End file.
